Part 19 (2/2)

A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round her neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally white. She carried a small cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to retreat.

”Oh, please don't go,” cried Joan. ”Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round to the doctor's. She won't be long. I'm a friend of hers.”

The girl took stock of her and, apparently rea.s.sured, closed the door behind her.

”What's he like to-night?” she asked, with a jerk of her head in the direction of the next room. She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa, and examined the new shawl as she did so.

”Well, I gather he's a little fretful,” answered Joan with a smile.

”That's a bad sign,” said the girl. ”Means he's feeling better.” She seated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl. ”Did you give it her?” she asked.

”Yes,” admitted Joan. ”I rather fancied her in it.”

”She'll only p.a.w.n it,” said the girl, ”to buy him grapes and port wine.”

”I felt a bit afraid of her,” laughed Joan, ”so I made her promise not to part with it. Is he really very ill, her husband?”

”Oh, yes, there's no make-believe this time,” answered the girl. ”A bad thing for her if he wasn't.”

”Oh, it's only what's known all over the neighbourhood,” continued the girl. ”She's had a pretty rough time with him. Twice I've found her getting ready to go to sleep for the night by sitting on the bare floor with her back against the wall. Had sold every stick in the place and gone off. But she'd always some excuse for him. It was sure to be half her fault and the other half he couldn't help. Now she's got her 'reward' according to her own account. Heard he was dying in a doss-house, and must fetch him home and nurse him back to life. Seems he's getting fonder of her every day. Now that he can't do anything else.”

”It doesn't seem to depress her spirits,” mused Joan.

”Oh, she! She's all right,” agreed the girl. ”Having the time of her life: someone to look after for twenty-four hours a day that can't help themselves.”

She examined Joan awhile in silence. ”Are you on the stage?” she asked.

”No,” answered Joan. ”But my mother was. Are you?”

”Thought you looked a bit like it,” said the girl. ”I'm in the chorus.

It's better than being in service or in a shop: that's all you can say for it.”

”But you'll get out of that,” suggested Joan. ”You've got the actress face.”

The girl flushed with pleasure. It was a striking face, with intelligent eyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth. ”Oh, yes,” she said, ”I could act all right. I feel it. But you don't get out of the chorus. Except at a price.”

Joan looked at her. ”I thought that sort of thing was dying out,” she said.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. ”Not in my shop,” she answered.

”Anyhow, it was the only chance I ever had. Wish sometimes I'd taken it.

It was quite a good part.”

”They must have felt sure you could act,” said Joan. ”Next time it will be a clean offer.”

The girl shook her head. ”There's no next time,” she said; ”once you're put down as one of the stand-offs. Plenty of others to take your place.”

”Oh, I don't blame them,” she added. ”It isn't a thing to be dismissed with a toss of your head. I thought it all out. Don't know now what decided me. Something inside me, I suppose.”

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